


Five Champions Who Prayed to the Kindred

by Wildcard



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M, Gen, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6040177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildcard/pseuds/Wildcard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what the title says. Features Vayne, Lucian+Senna, Sion, Renekton+Xerath and Olaf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Champions Who Prayed to the Kindred

> _i. vayne_

__  
Make it stop,_ _ Vayne begged silently, tears streaming down her cheeks as she huddled in the closet _. Please, Kindred, make it stop._  
  
Her mother’s high-pitched screams carried through the wooden doors, making the small girl cringe and curl into an even tighter ball. _Make it stop! Lamb, please, please, give them mercy. Please._  
  
The Kindred did not kill. They were not avengers. They would not come to kill the witch that was torturing her parents.   
  
But they could kill her family, they could stop the pain, they could stop the screams.  
  
Vayne shut her eyes tightly as her sister’s sobbing started anew.  
  
 _Please, Kindred. Please. Make it stop!_   
  


 

> _ii. lucian & senna_

  
  
“Lamb, let our aim be true. Wolf, let our hunt succeed. We send these creatures to you so you may give them the true death they flee.” Senna spoke the words confidently, kissing the barrel of her gun when she was done. She slid it into her holster at the same time that Lucian did, their movements synchronized from years of practice, then gave a light kiss to Lucian’s mouth.  
  
The creatures of the Shadow Isles, the monsters of the Black Mist, feared and fled the Kindred. It was their sacred duty to send those monsters to the Kindred so that their undead existences would finally cease.  
  
“Come, my little lamb,” she said as she stepped back. “We have work to do.”  
  
“I’m right behind you, my eager wolf.” Lucian smiled at his wife’s back and the tattoo of Lamb’s mask that nestled on the back of her neck, barely visible under her heavy mass of curls.

He loved her so and when the time came, they would greet the Kindred together.

> _iii. sion_

KINDRED. KINDRED COME! WILL KILL DEMACIAN DOGS!

WANT. NEED. KILL! KILL!

KILL!  All gone. No more fighting. I want more fighting. I want the General. Not the ravens. I want Darkwill. I want no more chains. I want to be out of this pit.  
  
I want the Kindred. I saw the Kindred. I saw Wolf. I fought Wolf.  
  
But I live. Did I beat Wolf? No. The Kindred never lose. Am I dead? My body is wrong. This is wrong. Where is my General?   
  
KINDRED. KINDRED COME.   
  
KINDRED! COME KILL ME.  
  
  


> _iv. xerath_   
>    
>    
> 

“Silence!” Renekton roared at Xerath. Within the confines of their tomb, his voice echoed loudly but Xerath’s cruel laugh drowned it out.

“I am the only company you will have for all eternity, _hero_.” On Xerath’s lips, the title was a curse. “Should I fall silent, you will pray for me to speak again.”  
  
“I have a better god to pray to,” Renekton snarled, pacing uneasily within the small confines of the space. He touched the sun medallion that still hung around his neck, thinking of his brother and the power it had granted them when they had Ascended. The sun had given him the strength to trap himself with Xerath; some day, the sun would give him the strength to escape.  
  
The glow of Xerath’s eyes dimmed as he saw that gesture. Once more, his laughter rang out.  
  
“So do I.” Searing power arched from his hand and in the walls of their tomb, Xerath etched a symbol that Renekton had only seen before in foreign lands. He did not know its meaning and nor did he care to ask. He closed his claws around his medallion instead and prayed.  
  
  


> _v. olaf_

  
  
“AND I SAID TO THE WOLF, WHERE’S YOUR LAMB? AND I SAID TO THE WOLF, WHERE’S YOUR LAMB? AND WITH AN ARROW IN MY CHEST, I THOUGHT IT BEST, TO SAY TO THE WOLF WHERE’S YOUR LAMB - YES TO SAY TO THE WOLF WHERE’S YOUR LAMB!” The boisterous drinking song was a popular one in the taverns of the Freljord and Olaf joined in the chorus with the other fighters, raising his tankard of ale in honor of the gods of death.   
  
No pious chant from a priest had ever been belted out with as much enthusiasm.


End file.
